The World
by GaleSynch
Summary: Whoever said that the terror of the Wizarding World cannot be a Dark Lady? fem!Voldemort.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything.**

**Pairings: **Alphard Black/Fem!Tom Riddle. Regulus Black/Fem!Voldemort. Harry Potter/Fem!Voldemort.

**Author's Note:** The reason I'm doing this is because I've never read a FemVoldemort before and since no one seems incline to do it anytime soon, I decided to do it. As for the pairings, yes: Sirius' single uncle, Sirius' younger brother and Sirius' godson. If you noticed the thread...

Feedback would be appreciated.

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**The World  
— and the distance between us**

**Chapter 1  
**_Topaz Marvel Riddle_

Mrs Cole squinted hazy, glazed eyes at the oddly dressed man before her; she'd never met anyone quite like him. Odd, piercing blue eyes. The only other person who had such piercing and unnerving eyes currently resided in her precious orphanage. And, apparently, someone whom this man wanted to meet.

Well, there was always the saying that birds of the same feather flock together. She tipped her head back, downing the gin in one go. This man... was he a relative of that brat Riddle? Mrs Cole could see no similarity between them save for the piercing gaze in their eyes, the intelligence within their orbs, but even their eyes were a different shade. The young Riddle had blue eyes, yes, but it was a cobalt shade, much like the night sky instead of this man's day-blue eyes.

Mrs Cole frowned, dimly realizing that the man—Albus Dumbledore, he'd introduced himself as, and his name was odd as well, it bothered Mrs Cole slightly—was waiting for an answer.

"It was nearly the end of the year, I recall," said Mrs Cole, unable to comprehend why the man was so interested in this young Riddle who'd been here for years. "And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first of her kind. We took her in, and she had her child within the hour. And she was dead not long after. It was a dreadful thing, poor girl only lived long enough to name her child."

Mrs. Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.

"Did she say anything before she died?" asked Dumbledore. "Anything about the child's father, for instance?"

Mrs Cole shrugged. "If he died in war, I could understand why and maybe forgive him for not coming back for his daughter. He never came, you see. All Riddle's mother said was that she hoped the boy would like his papa. I won't lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty—and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father—yes, I know, funny name, isn't it? We wondered whether she came from a circus—and she said the boy's surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word."

Mrs Cole took another swig of her drink, starting to feel lightheaded. "Problem is, see, the girl gave birth to a daughter. Not a boy. I was in a dilemma. How could I ignore a mother's dying wish? She wanted her child to be named Tom but Tom's a boy name but it was clearly very important to her. So I chose the closest sounding name to Tom: Topaz."

She hiccuped, failing to suppress it and she set her glass down. Perhaps she had one too many. "Told the girl about it. Insisted we call her Tom." She frowned. "I think she likes being special, being different seems to give her some sort of satisfaction. I'm telling you, I've never met another girl named Tom or even acts like our Tom."

"I see," said Dumbledore. "Are there any odd incidents around her?"

Mrs Cole frowned. "Now that you mention it... Topaz _is_ a weird girl."

"I thought she might be," Dumbledore muttered.

"Weirdest, quietest baby—and child—I've ever raised. Never gave us trouble, for which, I'm grateful for with the rest of the squalling infants. But many parents mistook this as a... birth defect. No one wanted her as an infant so she grew up here. Always looked out the window, reading when she's not." Mrs Cole hiccuped. "I think she's waiting for her father or any relative to come." She shook her head. "Poor girl. No one came, no Marvolo, no Tom or Riddle ever stepped foot here."

Dumbledore nodded sympathetically.

Mrs Cole straightened. "She's definitely got a place at your school, no matter what, right?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Definitely."

"Nothing I say will change that, promise?"

"Yes."

"Regardless of what she'd do."

"Regardless," agreed Dumbledore. "But I must ask, what did she do?"

Mrs Cole swallowed, sighing heavily once she did. "Scary kid. Scares the other children. And there's this incident with Billy Stubbs' rabbit... The boy ripped her book. We punished him, we did, but..." She hesitated, gauging Dumbledore's face for what he was thinking. "...well, the next day, we found his rabbit hanging from the rafters. It couldn't possibly hang itself, right?" She could not help the sarcasm.

"I should think not," said Dumbledore.

"And just last year, we took them to an annual outing to the seaside. I found Riddle, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop gone. Still could remember the heart attack they gave me. Wandered off into the woods to the east of the beach, and it was a stormy day too. What if something happened?"

"Fortunately," prompted Dumbledore. "all of them made it back safely?"

Mrs Cole nodded. "Physically, at least. But mentally..." Mrs Cole shuddered. "I didn't know what they did. The children, both older than Riddle by four or five years, never came out right again."

"What did she do?"

"Bury them," said Mrs Cole bleakly, her face losing all color.

Dumbledore blinked. "She, smaller than two older children, buried them?"

"Riddle swore they fell in themselves and she tried to help. But Dennis came back muttering something about cats... and Amy..." Mrs Cole closed her eyes, as if relieving a very painful memory. "Amy slit her wrists just last month. Tried to anyway. Riddle found her, saved her, apparently. Amy's been in a mental institute since then. I can't imagine, being trapped for hours in the dark, believing that you'd suffocate to death..."

"You believe a child of ten is capable of traumatizing kids older than her?" Dumbledore asked, disturbed.

Mrs Cole shrugged helplessly. "I tried to enlist doctors to look at her but every one of them came out saying that she's a nice girl, normal and all. Codswallop in my opinion." She fixed her dark eyes on Dumbledore. "I'll hold you to your word and she'll be gone."

"Not for good," said Dumbledore. "She'll still come back for the summer."

"Good. I don't think anyone would be sorry to see the back of the girl." She eyed Dumbledore tiredly. "I suppose you want to meet our little terror, yourself?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore, rising to his feet, sweeping after Mrs Cole who seem quite steady on her feet even though nearly all of the gin in the bottle was gone.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.

"Topaz? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you—well, I'll let him do it."

Dumbledore entered the room, and Mrs. Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe and two iron bedsteads. A young girl was sitting on top of the grey blankets, her long and lanky legs stretched out in front of her, holding a worn book. She looked up and fixed Dumbledore with navy blue eyes, eyeing him warily as he strode toward her.

"How do you do, Topaz?" Dumbledore held out his hand, wondering what her response would be.

She hesitated, closing her book and placing it by her side, sliding her legs off the bed before placing her small hand in his, shaking his hand gingerly as if it was something particularly dangerous. "I'm fine, thank you," she responded, voice very soft. "Another doctor, I assume?" she sighed heavily. "Well, get on with your questions."

It was not a request as much as it was an order. "My name is Professor Dumbledore." The scowl was barely noticeable on her pretty and pale face, but still there. Apparently, her suspicions were confirmed. "And there's nothing wrong with you at all, Topaz, nothing's wrong."

"Call me Tom," said the young girl. "I dislike the name Topaz." Under her breath, she muttered, "And everyone who walks through that door says the same thing."

Dumbledore ignored the muttered comment and her insolence. "And Tom is what your mother intended to name you."

The girl shrugged. "Even Thomasina would not be this irksome. Common, too common for my liking." She narrowed dark blue eyes at him. "Which institute are you from?"

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Dumbledore had seen many Muggle-borns react to this sort of news: shock, disbelief and laughter. Many taking it as a joke before accepting it when they were brought to Diagon Alley. Topaz 'call me Tom' was, as Mrs Cole phrased it, out of the ordinary. She did not respond with shock or laughter; just watched Dumbledore with narrowed eyes, flickering all over his face, obviously trying to discern a hint of lie.

"Magic?" she whispered. "Really? Is that what I can do?"

"What is it that you can do?"

"All sorts," breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up her neck into her hollow cheeks; for once, she looked as excited as any normal child her age would. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who hurt or annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to." She trailed a lock of rich, dark hair. "My hair grew back too, when Amy Benson thought it would be amusing to chop it off. Oh, she was sorry all right..."

"So, burying her alive was a proper retaliation?" Dumbledore inquired neutrally.

His inquiry, however, had made Riddle's guard flare up. She was barely able to hold back a sneer. The only reason she was able to reign herself in was with the promise of more information if she continued to play nice. Her smile was shaky but convincing enough. "I always knew I was different," she said sweetly, choosing to not answer Dumbledore's question.

Dumbledore decided not to press the issue, nodding. "You are a witch... Tom."

"Are you a..."

"Wizard," supplied Dumbledore helpfully.

Riddle cocked a brow in challenge. "Prove it."

Dumbledore wasn't really fond of the girl's tone. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—"

"Of course!" the girl said, her voice rising. "When can I go?"

"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'"

Riddle's expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before she said, in forced polite voice, "I'm sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me magic? Real, proper magic?" It had to be the excitement that made Dumbledore give in. She finally acted like a normal child her age. Perhaps his unease was unfounded.

Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick. The wardrobe burst into flames. Riddle flinched back, her hands flying to cover her face from the roaring fire and heat.

Her cheeks were flushed, but not from the heat and no longer from excitement. "You—just—burned—all—my—" She made a strangled, choked noise.

"Not all your possessions, I'm afraid," said Dumbledore and with another flick of his wand, vanquished the flames. Riddle looked less furious, but still puzzled at the odd jangling sound coming from within the wardrobe. Riddle had her right hand balled into a fist, covering her mouth—Dumbledore assumed it was there to suppress the scream from escaping when her wardrobe burned. Her eyes darted to him; their gaze met, and for the first time, fear flitted across her features. Dumbledore knew it. "Open the door," Dumbledore ordered calmly.

Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it.

"Take it out," said Dumbledore. Riddle took down the quaking box. She looked unnerved, but the fear had faded. Mostly. She was still watching Dumbledore warily. "Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" asked Dumbledore finally when Riddle looked no closer to admitting anything was wrong.

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look. "Yes, I suppose so, sir," he said finally, heaving a heavy sigh.

"Let me take a look," said Dumbledore.

Riddle looked less than pleased when she took off the lid and tipped the contents onto her bed without looking at them, her eyes had never left Dumbledore's face. A mess of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, the items stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets.

"You will return them to their owners with your apologies," said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket, ignoring how Riddle eyed his wand with a hungry glint in her eyes. "I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."

Riddle did not look remotely abashed; she was still staring coldly and reprovingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, "Yes, sir."

"At Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, "we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have—inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws."

"Yes, sir," said Riddle. She looked the picture perfect girl, obedient and law-abiding. Only Dumbledore could see another person lurking beneath that facade.

It was impossible to tell what she was thinking; her face remained quite blank as she put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. She kept her back turned to Dumbledore all the while, making it even harder to tell what she was thinking. Then, flatly, she said, "I have got no money." Dumbledore noticed that her voice was shaking when she said this. From anger or displeasure, Dumbledore couldn't be certain.

"That is easily remedied," said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. "There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but—"

"Where do you buy spellbooks?" interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.

"In Diagon Alley," said Dumbledore. "I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything—"

"You're coming with me?" asked Riddle, looking up, surprise coloring her features. "Why?" she demanded. "I can take care of myself. I'm used to doing things alone."

"No," said Dumbledore firmly. "These era of war is dangerous, especially for a young girl such as yourself. You do not know of the horrors this world have in store for girls."

"You're talking about prostitution," said Riddle flatly and it unnerved Dumbledore slightly that she had so much knowledge of the cold reality out of the orphanage's walls. Dumbledore wasn't sure whether it was wise for children to know of the threat or remain blissfully ignorant of it. She cast a glance at the pouch. "I suppose I have no choice."

"It's for your own safety," said Dumbledore kindly. "I'll be here in the morning." Dumbledore turned to leave, but Riddle called him back.

"Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle, they've told me."

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.

"My mother can't have been magic, or she wouldn't have died," said Riddle, more to herself than Dumbledore. There was deep resentment and bitterness in her voice when she spoke. "It must've been him. So—when I get all my stuff—when or how do I get to this Hogwarts?"

"Ah, yes, before I forget." Dumbledore withdrew from his pocket an envelope which Riddle took, again, without a thanks. "All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope," said Dumbledore. "You will leave from King's Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too."

Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. This time, she did not hesitate to take his hand; her grip was firmer and for the first time, a faint smile was on the young girl's face. The handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"_Promise_ you'll be back?" The hint of desperation in her tone tug at Dumbledore's heartstrings. Just a little. He shouldn't forget the trauma she'd cause to two children and the horror she had yet to unleash from within. But still, for her to be guarded, Dumbledore supposed many parents that came in through the orphanage doors had given her nothing but empty promises of family and happiness, left her jaded and empty when they never came back.

"I promise," Dumbledore said firmly and he strode through the door, closing it with a click. He hadn't even taken three steps away when he heard Riddle's voice, soft and muffled, drifting to his ears.

"_Break your promise... and I'll set the snakes on you..._"

Dumbledore frowned, disconcerted. She was singing and while her voice was beautiful and she'd done a good job on altering the lyrics to 'London Bridge Is Falling Down', there was no denying the eeriness and intent in her voice.

As he left, Dumbledore wondered what that strange and ominous feeling at the back of his mind.

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**xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**The World  
****— and the distance between us**

**Chapter 2  
**_Chance Meeting_

"Stick close to me," said Dumbledore to Topaz. "Do not even try to sneak off. Not all wizards are good."

Topaz nodded solemnly, shooting her would-be professor a nasty look when his back was turned. She tugged her coat tighter around her slight frame and followed the older man. She didn't trust him, she didn't like him, but there was no denying that he was a much better company than those men who eyed her hungrily. She glared right back, cobalt blue eyes flashing murderously. 'Tom' had always been good at taking care of herself.

"We're here," said Dumbledore. Which was an unnecessary action because Tom herself could've tell. There was just something different about the building structure—magic was shimmering around it. Muggles—and Tom's lips curled in disgust at the thought of _them_—were walking past it hurriedly, not even sparing it a glance though she was sure they were aware something was in their way, as a Muggle man had nearly ran straight into the building and changed course last second.

The dinghy bar was something that Tom did not favor much, but if it was the border to the magical world, she would not be complaining.

"The barman's name is Tom," Dumbledore commented idly, smiling and greeting the stooped man behind the bar, wiping a mug.

Tom sneered. "I'd be the first person to come into mind when you think the name Tom."

"If you say so, Tom," said Dumbledore lightly as he strode through the backdoor, Tom following, eyeing everything with great interest, already memorizing every detail. "This is how you get to Diagon Alley," he said, drawing his wand and tapping a series of bricks.

Tom watched, eyes slightly wider than normal, as the bricks liberated, swinging and whirling out of the way to form a pathway. Noticing Dumbledore's curious look, she smoothed her face into one of polite puzzlement, taking in everything with veiled interest. She would not be like those brats, 'oohing' and 'ahhing' like monkeys back at the orphanage. Dumbledore led her past a store which held broomsticks—which the kids were gaping at.

Tom could not believe young witches and wizards raised in the Wizarding world were acting like that too. Shooting the child who ran into her with a look of deep disgust, Tom fell into step with Dumbledore.

"That," said the man. "is not a store where you can buy brooms to sweep the floor."

"I know," Tom said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Then, recalling something about brooms being able to fly, she said, "They're for flying." It was more of a statement than a question.

Dumbledore nodded. "First years, however—"

"Are not allowed to have a broomstick of their own," answered Tom promptly. She'd spent last night reading and rereading the letter, just to assure herself that it was not a dream nor was it a horrible prank. It was rather pathetic now that she thought about it, how desperate she was to escape the walls of the orphanage that had been a restricting cage to her true potential, to her true self.

Tom had always know she was different. That she was special. But in the Wizarding world, she was—supposedly—no different than the people surrounding her now. Tom watched with a detached gaze as Dumbledore helped her pick out what she needed in the apothecary and the most suitable second-hand robes.

"Can I get my wand first?" she inquired, remembering to be polite. She gazed up at Dumbledore emotionlessly. "I really want one."

Dumbledore smiled. "Sure. If you want the best, we best head to Ollivanders'. I bought my own wand there, y'know?" It was more of a rhetorical question so Tom did not bother to answer. "Ah, Garrick!" said Dumbledore the moment they entered the store; it was dark and dusty, Tom needed a few seconds to adjust before she finally deigned to close the door. "It's wonderful to see you. Tom, here needs a wand—starting her first year."

The man who greeted her was short in comparison to Dumbledore but his silver eyes were unusual. Tom wondered if Muggles had such eyes. Most of the Muggles' eyes she'd met were blue, green or brown. Never silver. Perhaps it was a wizarding thing?

"What do you think of this? Pine, unicorn hair, thirteen inches and supple." Ollivanders inquired. He looked happy, in contrast to Tom who was starting to look disgruntled as she blew the boxes from the shelf. "I see not," murmured Ollivander but he didn't seem too disturbed or annoyed. Tom thought it would be rather obvious she had done that on purpose.

Her magic had always responded to her. She'd imagined blowing the boxes off and they did move. Even though the wand had not responded. It remained silent, unresponsive and useless. She hoped her wand would not be like that. She needed power. Her companion, the tool to greatness, must be great and utter perfection.

"Don't you think you should help, Tom?" inquired Dumbledore pointedly. Ah. This old git was sure hard to fool. He knew it was her doing.

Tom's lips curled slightly as she watched Ollivander try in vain to sort the mess out. "Why can't you just use a spell?"

"Many wands are sensitive to such spells, Ms. Riddle," said Ollivander in his oily voice. "I must not upset them."

Tom sighed softly, crouching, eyeing the mess she'd created. She was not sorry, in fact, it brought a little satisfaction to her. She hoped she could replicate this stunt soon, once she got her perfect wand, and that she'd be able to accomplish it at a larger scale.

Tom's fingers brushed the wood of the wand that had rolled to her feet. There was no box in sight. For the briefest of moment, a breeze blew in the shop. playing with Tom's hair. She stood, the wand held tight in hand, and turned. But there was no songbird. Just Dumbledore who watched her curiously. She swore, for a fleeting moment when the breeze had blew, she had heard the song of a bird.

"You seem to have found your match," said Ollivanders, his silver eyes were alight with interest. He was smiling slightly. "May I see it?"

Tom felt a little possessive over it and was not so willing to hand it over to him. As she had yet to pay him, however, she really did not truly own the wand. She handed it over. Ollivanders took it gingerly in hand, as if one wrong move would make the wand explode. Tom hoped not. She rather liked it even though she had only held it for a few seconds.

"Ah... yew, phoenix feather core, thirteen and a half inches... My, Professor, this girl's wand has the core your bird so generously donated."

Tom turned curious eyes to Dumbledore. "You have a pet phoenix?"

"Not pet, young lady," said Dumbledore. "No phoenixes are pets. They are companions. Lifelong companions and Fawkes is a good friend of mine."

Tom snorted softly at the sentiment. But her face softened when Ollivanders finally handed her wand back, coupled with the box. Tom dutifully handed the required amount.

"I think I will hear great things from you, Ms. Riddle," said Ollivanders, voice barely above a whisper. "May you be as great as the phoenix your wand's core originated from."

Tom turned to him, eyeing him critically. "Not think. Expect it." For Tom swore she'd be the greatest of all wizards and witches.

.

.

* * *

.

.

"Now, all we need to get is your schoolbooks and you'd be free to go."

Tom was actually a little—fine, very much but she wasn't going to admit it—sorry to leave Diagon Alley. Even though not many things interested her save the path that led to Knockturn Alley—where Dumbledore forbid her to go to—as it reeked with magic that just drew Tom in. Tom realized, pretty quickly, that she was as sensitive to magic as some of the wands in Ollivanders' were.

She didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

The bell ringing announced their arrival. As per usual, Dumbledore went in first, with Tom lagging behind, wanting to drag this trip on and on but when Dumbledore looked expectantly at her, she had no choice but to duck under his arm (she was rather tall herself) and go in.

Her first thought was, well, this was how a library should look like. Stacked to the top with books and no end in sight. This was way better than the laughable reading room they had in the orphanage.

"Just hand the man behind the counter your list," said Dumbledore, wandering off. "He'd help you."

Tom did as told, but she found herself wandering off as well. She passed Dumbledore in the 'Muggle Literature' section, noticed that she was in the Muggle section, turned in disdain and stomp off to the other side of the store where she finally saw the 'Wizard Section'. Tom noticed that they didn't add in the 'Witch' and wondered why. Did sexism extend to the Wizarding World as well?

She sighed softly. How disappointing. This just meant Tom needed to work twice as hard to be acknowledged as the greatest. Tom lazily looked up, saw the post 'Dark Arts' and entered. There was not a soul there even though she heard pages rustling; she assumed they were just a few rows down.

"Uh... ugh... almost there — you can do it, Black..."

Tom looked up from where she was reading a very interesting book, a scowl on her face. She hated it when people disrupted her when she was reading. The kids in the orphanage knew soon enough about that particular lesson, but kids here... practically intolerable.

It was a child, probably younger than Tom, with messy black curls that nearly reached her shoulder. Her hat was nearly falling off her head from how she was jumping up and down to reach the book.

"You do know there's a stool behind you, don't you?" Tom finally spoke, unable to resist it. Amusement curled in her gut when she saw the smaller girl's face redden before scurrying off to grab the stool. Tch. Kids were such idiots. Good thing that sort of disease skipped Tom and she was gifted with an extraordinary amount of sense and resourcefulness.

Tom's smirk dropped when she heard another new voice. Loud and piercing.

"What took you so long?" The girl was older than Tom and from the same pale skin, haunting good looks and black hair, was related to the not-so-bright child.

"Sorry," squeaked the child, red-faced as her older sister snatched the book from her. "It was too high for me." When her older sister continued to drill holes into her, the child pulled her hat lower, nearly covering her face. She mumbled something, too low for Tom to hear but the girl's older sister smirked. "...could've gone for it yourself, if you slim down, you'd lift off the ground."

The older girl did not hear but Tom did. "Pft." Tom hurried to raise the book to cover her smile, especially when the sisters turned to face her.

The younger girl edged behind her sister, a wary but curious look on her face. The older girl scowled, did a once-over of Tom, and her lips curled in disgust.

Tom steeled herself for the confrontation.

"Filthy Mudblood," the older girl snapped. "What're you laughing at?"

Tom didn't know what the girl was talking about, but she was not about to let that bitch know. The smaller girl gasped from where she was nearly hidden behind her sister. "That's a swear word!"

"Shut it, Elle. She's a Mudblood and she deserved it!"

"I'm afraid, Ms. Black, that you are mistaken." A hand fell on Tom's shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. Tom tensed when she heard Dumbledore's voice but said nothing. "Tom did nothing to deserve that insult."

Black scowled when she heard the voice, but she forced on a painful smile. "Professor Dumbledore," she said sweetly. "How nice to see you here."

"Nice to see you here, too," responded Dumbledore cheerfully. "Came without consent, did you?"

"Our parents are having tea with Mr and Mrs. Rosier," said the older girl. "We're free to do whatever we want." She scowled faintly at Tom who sneered back. "Say, Professor, don't you have to bring that... _girl_, back to... whichever dump she came from?" Her once-over made it clear she did not think Tom looked like a proper girl at all.

Tom felt simmering, boiling irritation. This sort of anger she had not felt for quite a while. Ever since Amy was sent to a mental institute, no other child ever dared to mess with Tom and had always let her have her way. She'd forgotten how pissed off she'd be when people did not follow her orders.

"I will," said Dumbledore, his voice a tad hard. He finally glanced down at Tom who was scowling darkly. "Do you want that book, Tom? I'd get it for you—"

"No," snapped Tom angrily. "I don't want it." Truth was, she had no money. Once she'd paid for her schoolbooks, she'd have almost no money left. Just Knuts and Sickles which would't be enough for this pricey book. Better she say she did not want the book than to admit she did not have the means to buy it—if only Dumbledore wasn't hovering over her shoulder, Tom was positive she could've persuaded or talked the shopkeeper into giving it to her for free of charge.

And Tom'd die before letting Dumbledore or Black know. Black seemed to know, however, because her eyes linger on her body, the state of her clothes, and her lips curled triumphantly. "Come on, Elle. Best not dirty ourselves with her."

The younger sister eyed her curiously, lingering on the state of her clothes too.

"_Go_," Tom practically snarled.

"Eep!" The child scurried away.

Dumbledore gently guided Tom back to where the shopkeeper was eyeing them curiously, Tom's schoolbooks all wrapped up. She didn't see any of the Blacks so she heaved a sigh. Tom needed a few minutes—which Dumbledore kindly gave—to calm herself and control her breathing. However, Dumbledore seemed to enjoy infuriating her because he asked, "Are you sure you do not want the book, Tom? I could buy it for you."

"I'm sure," she snapped, dropping the book on the counter and turning away, her schoolbooks clutched to her chest.

"Wait, Miss!" The shopkeeper cowered away when Tom turned to face him with the fearsome snarl that'd sent children scrambling away. "Y-your book." And he held up the book that Tom had been reading.

"I didn't buy it," she muttered resentfully.

"But someone's already paid for it!"

Tom's annoyance drained away to be replaced by curiosity. "Who?"

"Er, young master Black." At the blank look, he elaborated, "The young boy who left with his sister not a moment ago."

Dumbledore chuckled softly as they left the store, with Tom giving the shopkeeper another stink-eye. She shifted her attention to him and glared slightly too.

"Gathering admirers, Tom?" he teased. As if they were on familiar terms or something. Tsk. "The Blacks are a pureblood family, the oldest and wealthiest in Britain. You were lucky to catch young Alphard's eye. Then again, he had always been rather sweet."

"...Wait. The one behind the rude girl was a boy?"

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**xxx**

**Tom's name; **_Topaz, in Mrs. Cole's opinion, sounds closer to Tom -sharing the same first two letters- and she thought it was a proper name for a girl. Tomi or Tomiko are Asian Japanese names that do not suit this story. Topaz's name was shortened to Tom, which is unique and just the way Riddle likes it. And the name is the reminder that we're going on about Lady Voldemort, not an OC._

**Regarding Walburga's nickname for Alphard; **_Walburga said 'Elle' when she told Alphard to shut it. In truth, it was 'Al' but since Tom assumed Alphard was a girl, she thought she heard 'Elle' instead._

_Reviews are loved._


	3. Chapter 3

**The World**  
**— and the distance between us**

**Chapter** **3**_  
Getting Started_

Before she knew it—and much to her delight—September 1st arrived. Mrs. Cole personally escorted her to King's Cross station. Tom knew full well that she did not do it out of concern for the young Riddle, but to make sure Tom would undoubtedly be gone for the rest of the year till summer visited.

This troubled Tom a little as Mrs. Cole was not an idiot, in fact, she was quite the opposite. Tom had a little difficulty whenever she had to lie her way out of trouble when Mrs. Cole was the one left to interrogate the young girl.

"I'll be fine now," said Tom pointedly, trying to shrug Mrs. Cole's hand off her shoulder. "You can go," she said, not as much a statement as it was an order. Mrs. Cole hesitated. "I will write the moment I reach," Tom added. Dumbledore had said something about Hogwarts' Owlery so she supposed she could use the owls there. _Free_ of charge.

And Mrs. Cole's hand loosened. Tom turned on her heel, striding confidently and quickly toward the platform between nine and ten. Taking a deep breath, Tom took off running, eyes closed in preparation. As she stepped through the barrier, the oddest sensation took over, tingling all over her body before she finally emerged on the other side.

Owls' screeches greeted her and Tom raised a hand to protect her eardrum. The birds were almost as bad as children. No, wait. They were worse than the kids in the orphanage. At least those brats knew how to keep their mouth shut when told, these owls probably couldn't understand what she was saying.

Another detail bugged Tom: everywhere she turned, parents were hugging their children. It made the knot in Tom's chest tighten and she gritted her teeth, willing herself to drive the discomfit expression away. She didn't understand herself what she felt. Tom had always had a hard time processing emotions and feelings. The only clear feelings she had were annoyance, hate and anger.

There was absolutely nothing delightful at the orphanage so Tom had very, very little reasons to smile. Actually, Tom couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled or laughed genuinely. Tom didn't know she had in her, to have such a carefree, whimsical expression. Had she _ever_ smiled?

Tom had always had the best of memory; the matrons thought she was lying (as usual) but Tom thought she could remember her mother, vague details about the mysterious woman's face and her words.

_I love you so, so much, Tom. _Then her mother had smiled, dimples appearing on her cheeks; perhaps, just an hour after she was born, Tom had laughed in response to her mother's joy. She didn't know. She couldn't care anymore less.

_Liar,_ Tom thought darkly, viciously as she always thought whenever that memory surfaced. Her mother didn't love her. Her mother loved the _idea_ of her. And even then, her mother had thought of a son instead of a daughter. Tom was unwanted, unloved—her father didn't come for her.

Mrs. Cole told her that her father might've died in the ongoing war. Told her that her parents must be watching her from above. It did nothing to comfort her, it only reminded Tom that death had caused all the misery in Tom's life. She'd never been loved, she'd never received anything in her entire life, she'd never been happy. Dislike didn't even begin to describe what Tom thought of death.

The train's whistling pulled Tom out of her reverie. Tom quickly smoothed her expression over, she hadn't even realized she was glaring at everyone in sight.

She climbed onto the train, taking everything in sight with slight awe. Someone snorted loudly, prompting Tom to turn and scowl darkly at Black. The same rude girl whose brother had bought Tom the book. The book which was in Tom's trunk, buried under the rest of Tom's schoolbooks.

"I noticed that the little Mudblood was all alone on the platform. Where are your parents?"

Tom shot her a passionless gaze. "Dead," she said dully. "All dead." Something in her gaze must've unnerved the rest of the girls behind Black because they flinched, lowered their eyes and murmured amongst themselves. With a sneer, Tom turned away. "If you had any brains, you would've come to the same conclusion without asking."

Tom didn't need people like them. She didn't need anyone. She had her wand, she had her power and talent. She will be great.

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* * *

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First year passed uneventfully for Tom. Other than the unusual looks at her name ("Tom? Is that really your name, Ms. Riddle?") and her Sorting into Slytherin despite her blood status ("My goodness! No Muggle-born have ever been in my House, one of your parents must be magical, Ms. Riddle."), there was nothing exciting for Tom at all.

Tom was a little pleased that she was quickly working her way up the ladder. Tom played the professors well. Only Professor Dumbledore seemed to know that she was acting. It took her only a day after she was shoved painfully against the wall, head cracked from the force, by a Slytherin student who claimed that _no Mudbloods would tarnish their House's pureblood reputation_, to pull up the mask she'd had since she was a child when confronting the adults: the small, tiny smile that always played at the edge of her lips. Shy, insecure and gentle the smile was—exactly like a proper lady, right?

Tom was everyone's favorite and Professor Slughorn, her Head of House, was under the impression she was sweet and gentle. He'd told off the pureblooded brat, Parkinson, who'd wrenched her hair unprovoked, and even warned his Slytherin students to treat Tom nicer as she was a candidate for his Slug Club.

Tom learned pretty quickly that the Slug Club was a very famous club that was only exclusive to talented young wizards and witches. She thought she'd have an easier time, but much to her disappointment, very few witches made it in as they were often overlooked.

By her second year, she'd had her eyes set on getting into that club. Slughorn invited renowned people from around Britain, showed off his students and promised them recommendations. If Tom had any wish to succeed in making a name for herself, she'd better stay in Slughorn's good graces and climb up the ladder from there.

"Black, Alphard!"

Tom raised her eyes lazily to where a boy was making his way to the stool. She had no doubt as to which House he'd be Sorted into and soon enough, the Hat roared, "SLYTHERIN!" Tom lost interest. She'd nearly forgotten the shy and meek boy that had hidden behind his older sister. The strange boy who had been the first person to give her something. Even though Dumbledore had offered...

Dumbledore had said that Alphard did it out of the goodness of his heart. Tom thought Black boy did it because he just had too much money to throw around and it irked her.

"H-hey."

At first, Tom didn't respond. Because no one talked to Tom. If any of the Slytherins referred to Tom, they'd say 'that little Mudblood' and the rest of the school would either call her 'Riddle' or 'that Slytherin girl'. Tom turned cold eyes to the one who'd spoke to her, sure now that he was talking to her as no one dared to sit closer to Tom.

Tom knew she was intimidating even though the purebloods would never admit it. Only the older Slytherins dared to taunt her. But after that incident where an older Slytherin boy had to walk around one whole day with a 'I LOVE MUGGLES!' sign behind his back, even they had been wary.

Slowly, but surely, Tom was gaining respect. As the youngest in her year and the whole House, no one would pay attention to the baby. Seniority gave Tom more space to assert her power. And the innocent first years were a good place to start.

She just didn't expect to be starting with Alphard Black. Tom had her plans already laid out. She'd talk to the younger _pureblood_ students of other Houses and befriend them. Power and respect came from Tom's hard work, she studied till night fell to get the grades she got and whenever she was done with her homework, she always scoured the whole library for new spells and practiced till she got it down perfectly.

Tom arched a brow when the boy slid into the seat beside her. She noticed that he was the first Slytherin to be Sorted this year. And since the seats were assigned according to seniority, she ended up next to him. She did not bother returning his greeting. Slytherins do not bow down to pleasantries and smiles, they only submit when there was power.

Power Tom will have. Tom did not bother to be polite, she kept her gaze pointedly on the other side of the Hall, practically feeling the boy wilting in his seat.

Alphard wasn't too depressed for long. Soon, half a dozen kids joined them and Alphard was chatting animatedly with them already. In particular, to a blonde girl who was in his year, and if she heard right, they had been friends since they were born. Good for them, Tom thought, snorting derisively when the girl promised to help Alphard in every way she can because he doubted he could catch up as his older siblings were stingy with knowledge.

The girl, Druella Rosier, if Tom recalled correctly, glared at her and Tom sneered back.

Dinner ended on a good note, which meant that Tom had managed to restrain herself from cursing any of the brats. Salazar, she'd forgotten how annoying younger kids were. Older children were ignorant and younger children were brats. Merlin. How could _she_ be below these idiots?

_My mother had to be better than this_, Tom thought as they got up from their seats; she kept her mouth firmly shut as the rest of the school bellowed the Hogwarts song.

Just recently, before the start of her second year, Tom had came to accept that her mother had to be the one with magical blood—Riddle, her father's name was not a wizarding name as all the Slytherins were so happy to point that out to her. It was a very tough pill to swallow. She'd thought witches and wizards were more resilient than that. Yet, her mother had died. Had her mother not fought to stay alive? Was she not strong enough to win against death? Was raising her daughter, loving her and giving her everything a mother should, not enough of a motivation to love?

And Tom Riddle. Her father. Now that Tom thought about it, her mother could've been declaring her love for her long-gone husband than her child. It did nothing to improve Tom's view of her mother. In fact, the childish and idiotic image of her mother (who looked like her) had fissures.

Scowl in place, Tom was about to head back to her dormitory when she heard the commotion in the common room. She was halfway up the stairs before she looked down. Walburga Black was laughing derisively, a book in hand. She was very tall for a girl her age and she easily held her brother's book away from his reach.

"Aw, little Allie brought his diary—let's see what he'd written—Hm, August 1st—"

"Give it back, Wally!" yelled Alphard Black, scrambling onto the couch to reach half his sister's height.

Tom snorted. _Wally?_ She watched from above, a little amused and disgusted at how the purebloods were acting (she thought they were better than that), and had to suppress a smirk when she saw the red creeping up to Walburga's face when the rest of the common room broke into snorts and sniggers.

"You'd regret that, Alphard."

Alphard stood his ground, glaring up at his sister (he was pitifully small from Tom's vantage point of view). Tom tilted her head to the side, finally noticing that the Black boy had cut his hair and it now reached his neck instead of the messy curls that had pooled around his shoulders. He also looked more like a boy now.

"Give me back my book." But as far as Tom could see, Alphard had not toughen up at all. Standing up to his sister was making him tremble and she thought he might break down crying before Walburga's snarl.

Tom waved her hand, summoning the book from Walburga's grip. Coldly, she said, "You've got to do better than that." And she left, taking Alphard's diary with her.

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* * *

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It took Alphard three days to work up his courage and find her. And even then, he needed his best friend, Druella Rosier to accompany him. Let it be said he was not a lion.

Tom could never see why girls go around in a flock. She'd always done things alone, she never needed anyone to accompany her to the loo, nor did she need anyone to walk her to the staff room. What, Tom thought, would be so hard to do something alone.

She never needed help so she couldn't understand why people needed other people.

She needed no one.

(Just as no one seemed to need her, but she tried not to think about it and most of the time, she didn't care.)

Tom arched a brow at Druella's demand—Alphard was silent, hidden partially behind her. Both Alphard and Druella cringed when she rose to full height. Tom had always been tall for her age and it pleased her, she could intimidate others easily this way. Tom had always been called creepy by the children in the orphanage. Whenever her fake, cold smile that didn't reach her eyes was on her face, she looked sweet, like a doll made out of porcelain. But when she wasn't smiling, Tom knew they called her a freak, a devil's child because no child should ever have a face fashioned entirely out of marble.

Apparently, wizarding kids seemed to share the same opinion with their Muggle counterpart.

"I will not give it to you," said Tom to Alphard coldly. "until you ask me yourself." She saw his face redden and she smirked. Did she mention how much pleasure it brought her when people were suffering? When they were in a tight spot? It always reminded Tom that she _couldn't_ possibly be the only one suffering. It comforted her like nothing can.

Pain and power. Her remedy. Her light in this cruel world.

She turned away.

"And my name is not something as sweet as Mary."

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**xxx**

**Regarding the last sentence**; _Tom_ had_ read Alphard's diary and it was the reason why she said it. Alphard, not knowing her name, initially assumed that her name was something as sweet and innocent as Mary._

_Review!_

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**xxx**


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